


Of Death and Devotion

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Drama, Future, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-02
Updated: 2004-04-02
Packaged: 2018-12-27 12:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12081171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Death, devotion, and the rise of a new god. Primarily Justin/Gus but lots of references and nods to Brian/Justin.





	Of Death and Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Notes: Funny thing about this fic is that it’s not meant to be taken one hundred percent seriously, although it’s written seriously enough. I really, sincerely doubt Justin/Gus would happen, with or without dead!Brian. Thanks to Wrenlet for the beta, and to Mairead and Lauren for the major help.

* * *

_Oh God_. The thought was abstracted and nauseous and almost spoken aloud. _I’m going to die_.

Justin Taylor choked on cold November morning air. He wanted to pull the long wool jacket around him, wanted to shove his hands and red-numb fingers into the pockets and maybe disappear somewhere.

Justin would make a good corpse. He looks good now, has always looked good and will always look good, although today the black-white-black of his clothing made him sinister. The tie, his only clash, is slate-gray. An all-out affair that morning, to tie a tie, staring at himself in starch and a poorly constructed blank slant of eye and of mouth, choking when the knot is too tight and blurring up the reflection in the mirror, frustrated.

_Fuck I’m just going to fall in and they’re going to bury me alive_.

But the only thing that fell in was Justin’s flower, right on top of the casket, and he wobbled in his shoes in the muddy grass as if he was double-checking his decision. He made up his mind though, setting his jaw with teeth-grinding stiffness that kept him from crying.

Someone – probably Mikey, maybe Em – touched his arm, pinching the fabric of his coat as if to drag him back from the edge of Brian’s grave. The gesture was past due by only a scant heartbeat and a footstep. A small part of Justin appreciated it. The rest of him recoiled and hated it.

_Get off of me or I swear to God I will and you’ll fucking regret it I swear to Christ get off get off_.

He glanced up and wiped away a tear, this one caused by the cold and his damnable constant allergies. Ted smiled at him a little and Justin gave a watery smile back, half expecting Ted to throw a thumbs-up or deliberately mouth a question like “are you okay?” No, he wasn’t okay, do you understand that? What a concept, guys. _My boyfriend’s dead and you’re gonna be in trouble_. Justin choked on a laugh or something that sounded like one, trying yet again to not look in the pit that was supposed to be Brian’s new home.

Mikey or whoever let go of him and Justin felt instantly dizzy with relief. He felt like a fucking virus, like HIV or the fucking flu, and everyone had better scatter ASAP or face a life exactly like Justin’s had turned out. Fuck, they’d all kill themselves if that happened. They’d all meet mediocre, melodramatic ends, tossing themselves onto their lover’s grave without so much as a fare-thee-well or their own coffin. 

He was not a little surprised that Mikey wasn’t sobbing and clutched pathetically against Ben’s chest, face a red mess. Although given that it was Michael, Justin was lucky there was even room on Brian’s casket he could consider clinging to, that Michael hadn’t already taken the position. But Mikey was a lot different now; nineteen years had changed him, and while Justin wasn’t sure if it was for the better there was no going back. 

No one was crying, and that made Justin want to all the more because it meant he couldn’t.

Even Lindz wasn’t. She was holding Mel’s hand, who might have looked a little shaken but please. And then there was Gus. Standing stricken between his two mommies and biting his lip, looking confused as though the idea of his father dead in a car crash at forty-eight was some riddle that needed solving. Justin felt a wave of heart-panging sympathy for him. Justin had been someone’s son and knew what it felt like, even if Craig had never been anything like Brian. 

His mind shot to a picture of Gus and Brian that Brian had kept in a small, silver frame on his desk at the office. He had a bigger copy of the photo at the house, and Justin would stumble across it when he’d clean or look for various bric-a-brac in their closets. Fuck. Gus on Brian’s lap, Brian in a rare moment of candor, smiling happily and pointing at the camera to make sure Gus was looking straight at it. Justin had taken the picture on Gus’ fifth birthday. 

Now Gus was… what? Shit. Nineteen. Twenty soon, not even a couple of months. Justin glanced up at him miserably, not quite catching his eye and liking it that way. Gus’ hair was longer than he’d seen it last, he was on the second day of not shaving, and he was beautiful like his father. 

Twins. Everyone said so, and Brian had the pictures of his own youth to prove it. Gus would visit -- he went to school now in California -- he would visit during summer or winter holiday, and Justin would dutifully dig up the pictures. Mikey donated quite a few in a shoebox one December. Justin spent hours asking Brian what was happening in each one. Summer camp. Soccer camp. Prom. He’d looked unbelievably hot in that one, standing in the spot between the stairs and the front door at Deb’s standing right next to Michael, smiling closed-mouth and wearing a tux. There were a scant few from college tossed in the box as well. 

Gus had shown wide-eyed wonderment at them all. He stood behind Brian and Justin in the kitchen while they flipped through the box, then following the pair into the living room where he sunk to the floor and studied every picture passed down to him as if it was a gift from God.

“I look exactly like you, dad,” he’d said in a low, rather small voice. 

Brian had flipped a grin and thrown another Polaroid at him. “I know. Aren’t you the lucky little prick? I was never blond, though.”

“‘M not blond,” Gus had muttered, turning his attention back to a picture of Brian taken just before graduating from Carnegie-Mellon. Brian had laughed and said of course not, and anyway, Justin was enough blond for all of them.

Actually it had been something of a white-lie. Gus was blond, a dishwater blond who didn’t stay in the sun long enough to get the proper highlights. Justin was secretly envious of his hair; it wasn’t brightly shocking, only muted enough to compliment. It meant he’d never get stuck with the nickname Blondie, or have to sit through Brian’s endless trove of annoying blond jokes.

Jesus. Gus was gorgeous. Justin suddenly felt the urge to draw him, felt like bringing him to the studio or the house later and making him sprawl out in a pose. On the floor just under a window, or outside on the patio if it was going to be at home. He wanted Gus staring up from the paper, wide-eyed, with one leg tucked under his ass. Maybe naked, maybe not, it didn’t matter. Fuck, the more Justin stared, the more he wanted to draw, and his aesthetic eye always turned a potential subject and its inherent flaws into foolproof beauty. That and the frankly scary resemblance to Brian kind of made his cock hard.

Blue eyes. Not hazel. Warm, blond-brown hair, a rounder hairline, more of an arch to his eyebrows. Not Brian. Gus. _You know, Sunshine, the same Gus you practically fucking named the first night he came into the world. Remember that night? Wasn’t that the night Brian popped your cherry? Fuck, and you’re standing here thinking about how fucking hot he’d look, all long legs and bare chest and honey-hair and –_

Thankfully, Michael was touching his shoulder and murmuring that it was time to leave. There was a spread of food and morbidity waiting at Mikey’s house, and Justin didn’t want to be late, did he?

_I just want to sit on his cock_ , Justin found himself thinking desperately, eyes frantically following the small gestures Gus made. Towards Melanie, kissing her temple, hugging Lindz’s shoulders, biting his lip, stepping backwards jerkily like he’d been punched in the stomach, and then stepping forwards hesitantly to stare into his daddy’s grave. _I just want to fuck him, maybe he’s into guys, Brian was too afraid of queers raising queers to ask, it’s perfectly normal for me to be thinking this, grief makes you crazy, doesn’t it, Taylor?_

He found himself nodding emphatically at whatever Mikey was saying, but he was moving away, crossing by the headstone and ending up on the other side of the dig-out where Gus was standing with the girls. “Hey,” he whispered to them, and Mel took his right arm and Lindz took his left, both squeezing in reassurance. Gus, however, was still staring down into Brian’s grave. 

“How are you, honey?” Lindsay asked, kissing his cheek. 

“I’m okay.” His voice cracked but he didn’t notice; he was too busy staring holes into the back of Gus’ head. 

“You sure?” Mel questioned, evidently feeling the need to put in her note of empathy.

Justin smiled for a beat and nodded. “Yeah. Hey, Gus?” He moved a step away from the girls, a step too close to Gus.

Startled, Gus whirled around, eyes widening at Justin’s presence. _Oh yeah, I’ve heard of this, it’s like pity-fucking but worse, isn’t the technical term Grief Sex?_ Justin shivered at Gus’ closed, sad smile. 

“Hey Jus,” Gus murmured, moving forward and hugging Justin with one arm. Justin snaked an arm around Gus’ back and squeezed fabric and flesh. He felt strangely euphoric from the smell of Gus’ shampoo. “How are you? Are you okay? God.” 

“I’m fine.” Gus wasn’t precisely as tall as Brian but nearly; he was at six feet and on a good day a little over it. Reluctantly Justin withdrew from the embrace, and they both blinked at each other oddly. 

“You look good.”

He did. He wasn’t yet forty and was blessed with good genes. “So do you.” _I feel like puking up all over you, but you look fucking hot_. Vaguely he heard Mel and Lindz retreating. He and Gus were probably the only ones left now. 

“Are you going to Mikey’s for the thing?” Gus asked, his voice as always a low hum. Justin had never heard it from this new, perverted perspective and it shook him.

“I’m not sure.” It was his turn to bite at his lips, worrying the bottom between his teeth until it stung. “Do you think it would be horrible if I didn’t?”

Gus shook his head. “Nope. I don’t even think I’m going. I don’t think I could… handle it.” He looked at Justin imploringly. “You know?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Listen…” There was something utterly sacrilegious in standing over your dead lover’s grave and attempting to lure your dead lover’s son, your partial-son, back to your dead lover’s house and fucking him six ways to Sunday. Justin had to wonder when thinking about fucking Gus had definitely turned into fucking Gus. “Do you want to head back home with me?”

Gus actually seemed surprised. He had flown in the night before and was staying with his mom(s), but even so, before Brian had always demanded he stay at their house for visits. Gus even had his own bedroom. “Sure. I mean, if you’re sure you want the company. I’d appreciate it.” He itched under his collar. 

“Let’s go, then.” It came out in an over-eager rush, but standing at Brian’s burial site was staring to make him shake and he was disgusted with himself for keeping an erection.

“Yeah, let’s go.” Gus worriedly patted his arm and they walked in silence to Justin’s car.

\---

“Can I get you something to drink?” Justin tossed his coat onto a nearby chair, unknotting his tie as he walked into the kitchen. Trying to keep busy, trying to keep his hands busy, and they shook guiltily as they undid the painstakingly constructed Windsor knot.

“Do you have tea or something?”

Justin swung the fridge door open and leaned on it. Brian hated that habit, said that home appliances weren’t meant to be used as fuckin’ jungle-jims. “Um. We have some Tazo, would you like some of that?”

“It doesn’t matter. Sure.”

Justin pulled out the jug, fingers knocking against the neatly shelved other items. Basil lemonade, guava juice, three carefully stacked cups of plain vanilla yoghurt, water. He set the tea on the counter and bumped the fridge door closed with his hip, movements all fluid and easy, practiced. Justin thought about how strange it was that his body kept moving like nothing had happened. 

Frowning, pointedly not looking over the bar and at Gus, he reached for two plain white mugs in their respective cabinet. His fingers clinked the two together, and as he pulled them out his wrist suddenly shot with a twinge of pain. A lasting curse from the bashing, along with recently developed carpel-tunnel. His left hand rubbed his right wrist and his cock throbbed when he heard Gus’ quiet movement through the house.

Justin poured the tea and tried to turn off his brain.

“You said we.”

He looked up. “What?”

“You said ‘we’ have Tazo.”

“I did?” His heart dropped into his stomach and cracked his ribcage along its way. “I didn’t notice.”

“Yeah, well…” Gus shrugged. He came up to the bar and slid into a stool. Justin imagined his too-long legs and where his knees would knock against the wood like Brian’s used to. And his feet, the heel of his right shoe balanced on the metal of the stool’s leg, the left foot on the floor. “I’m sorry for bringing it up. It just stuck in my head.” 

Justin nodded and absently ran his fingers through his hair. “No, you’re… it’s not a big thing.” He smiled, huffing, not quite succeeding in producing a laugh through his closed mouth.

“You must miss dad,” Gus said quietly, just as Justin slid his mug of tea onto the bar counter. It nearly tipped when his arm gave a violent shudder, but Gus’ hand shot out and steadied it. Their fingers bumped each other in an anxious tangle until Gus had a good hold on the mug and Justin let go.

“Do you want sugar? I like mine sweeter if it’s been left to steep a while.”

“Justin?”

He turned back around, in the middle of a “yeah,” when he noticed Gus’ expression. “What?” His voice was sober now, breaking in the middle of the quick syllable with painful obviousness. 

“Are you all right?”

_Trick question, damned if I do, damned if I don’t, and damned either way because sin counts whether or not you actually stick your cock up your pseudo-son’s ass, it’s all in the contemplation, all in the finer details._ “I’m good.” He almost tacked a ‘why?’ onto the end of it, just to be polite and a good conversationalist, but Gus would take him seriously.

“I’m upsetting you.” Gus looked like a wounded animal. Like he’d bitten off his own leg. Justin watched him from his side of the bar counter. The serendipitous chance of light streaking in through the open windows lit the tips of Gus’ hair, making his face smooth despite the prominent jaw. _I could fuck you on our bed and not give a shit, you mean that much to me, I could draw you and mount the canvas above the fireplace like a goddamn swooning faggot motherfucker and people would compliment the fucking décor, I could shove those long legs up in the most uncomfortable position and make you fucking like it, I could let you take up space in my life, just like that fucking painting, you know, where that abstract of Brian is that I put up last Christmas._ “I should go.” 

“No, you shouldn’t.” He sighed, leaned over the bar counter and touched his forehead to the cool surface in a gesture somehow better fit for his twenties. “You shouldn’t go,” he said, standing up straight again, “because this is sort of your house too and even though I’m a little out of it, you have nothing to do with that.” _Is lying a sin, shit I should have paid more attention in Bible Studies, thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not lie maybe, possibly even thou shalt not commit anything resembling incest, but thou shalt not like cock in the first place, I’m screwed either way so what does one pityfuck matter in the scheme of things, to fuck or not to fuck, that is the question?_

“I’m so sorry dad is dead, Justin,” Gus whispered, but he wouldn’t look Justin in the eye, instead opting to stare into his mug of Tazo.

“Me too.” The first simply honest thing Justin had said all afternoon. Or so it felt like. He sighed and sipped his tea, watching the curl of Gus’ fingers over the mug handle. 

“It’s a wonder you’re holding up,” Gus started, finally looking up at him. His mouth was screwed in a wry, saddened half-smile. “I don’t know what I would do if my lover died.”

“Yes,” Justin agreed, distracted.

“Not that I have a lover, but…”

“Yes,” he said again, nodding emphatically this time. He wondered if Gus noticed something odd about their whole exchange, or if his behavior was exempt on account of Brian’s death.

“Shit.” Gus’ perfect mouth framed the perfectly suiting word and ended in a self-reprimanding whimper. He ducked his head down, pinched the bridge of his nose just like his daddy used to, and Justin stared at him as if he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life. He probably hadn’t. 

The idea of Gus being more attractive than Brian disturbs him, unsettles him in the worst way. Brian was his perpetual standard; all other men couldn’t begin to measure up. He saw the face of God, and he never dreamed of another religion, never thought for a second about his soul.

But now it needled under his skin like a fucking parasite and wouldn’t go away. _They say the devil will trick you into believing he is God._ Sacrilegious to think so, but Justin couldn’t seem to help himself. He had to shake his head several times as if to clear it, and he half-heartedly sipped his Tazo, frowning over the rim between sips.

It took him a few moments to realize that Gus was talking, or at least trying to, in that same anxious, impatient, imploring way Brian would tacitly get Justin’s attention and make his point; fidgeting. Thrumming his long fingers on the countertop.

“What? I’m sorry, I keep drifting off.” He offered a self-reproving chuckle and dumped most of his Tazo down the sink. He didn’t really want it anyway.

“’S nothing. I’m out of it too. Understandably.” He smiled humorlessly and itched his temple, another nervous habit. Justin was finding (or perhaps finally noticing) Gus’ endless supply of them.

“So…” He drew it out much longer than necessary, but everything between them was off-kilter. In the scheme of things, one more faux pas didn’t even count. _So this is what it’s like to be crazy._

“So?”

He tried to look impervious to the whole scenario – Gus in his kitchen, Brian dead, Gus looking illegally hot, Brian dead, Gus in general, Brian dead – but failed, at least to his own measure. “You staying here tonight?”

“I think I will. Moms’ll just coddle me if I go back there.”

For the first time that day his smile was genuine. “And I won’t?”

“Yeah, well…” Gus shrugged, fiddled with his left cuff. “Your breed of coddling is a lot more enjoyable.”

He wasn’t really sure if that comment was supposed to strike him as strange or what. “Really? And here I thought you enjoyed being forced to consume vast amounts of hot coco, or maybe a round of suffering through ‘Mystery’ on PBS. Heart-to-heart chats with the lezzies not your bag?” _I sound like Brian, dear lord, I guess this makes it officially incest._

Gus laughed, but it did little to relieve the tension or the buzzing in Justin’s ears. “Not exactly.”

Justin nodded. “That’s understandable. Sometimes talking is for shit, I guess.” There. He sounded a lot more like Justin Taylor and less like mindless homage to a dead god.

“No, that’s not it.” Gus shifted and stared down at the bar counter, scrubbing with an index finger at an imaginary smudge of dirt. “Talking isn’t for shit. Talking… talking’s fine. It’s the listening that I have problems with.” His shoulders shook once, soft and maybe a repressed sob, but Justin was watching for it. Gus smiled, beamed ridiculously and inappropriately, to cover it up.

He managed a succinct, “Oh?” Justin Taylor; always the master of insight and consolation. 

“I miss my dad,” Gus confessed quietly. “I kept staring at the picture they had up during the eulogy and… I just couldn’t fucking believe it, you know?”

Justin had a feeling that they’ve had this conversation before, or some variation of it. And if not, the words and the sentiment were familiar because he’d played it over and over in his head like a hymn for the last four days. Unending, inescapable grief had him snug in its palm. He knew in the smarter, secular part of his brain – the part he had been trying to quiet since he stepped onto Liberty Avenue all of those years ago – that the grief was what made him crazy, but at least crazy is something. At least crazy was alive, not buried alongside Brian’s burial plot, or clinging to Brian’s coffin. “I know,” he mustered at length, choking. “I know.”

When Gus looked up at him, whether in uncertainty or sympathy it didn’t matter, his eyes were glassy, teeming with unshed tears. Justin looked back at him, feeling the beat of his heart pulse soundlessly through his veins, hearing the steady pattern of Gus’ breathing with the occasional pained hitch. _I can’t fuck him_ , he realized. Relief and ignominy flooded his face and stained it red, caused his own eyes to burn conspicuously. _Sex never solved anything for me anyway, just gave a respite until the next thing in my life went to shit._

“That picture they used at the eulogy, that was when your dad made partner at Morgan,” Justin said, merely filling the silence but liking that a lot better than what was happening before.

“I know, he was so fucking happy. He even smiled for it.” It had been a running joke that Brian couldn’t pose for a picture without leering or smirking with his mouth shut. 

“That was three days before your fourteenth, right?” Brian had this tooth, his top left incisor, that was crooked just-so. He hated smiling because it showed it off. Justin had never been able to figure out if the flaw was natural, caused by a stray soccer ball, or Jack Kinney. _Just another thing Brian Kinney didn’t deign to talk about._ But Brian was so fucking gorgeous with that tiny imperfection. As the old statues crack and transform with age, they become monuments to a classic perfection none will attain. And so it had been with Brian. 

“Yeah. I went to his office after school so we could head to the restaurant together, and I saw the picture framed and hanging in the lobby.” Gus sighed. “Why’d you decide to use that one for the service, though?”

Embarrassed, Justin looked away from Gus’ gaze. “Um. I didn’t. Michael did. Or maybe it was Lindz. I’m not sure. I… couldn’t.”

“I understand.” 

And strangely, Justin could tell that he truly did. There was no sickening mercy in his tone, his eyes. No tinge of disappointment. No sigh of inconvenience. Nothing. He just understood.


End file.
